


let you in (this time)

by Damkianna



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extra Treat, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Mitch isn't expecting the knock on the door.And hedefinitelyisn't expecting to open it and find Joey Morolto on his front step.
Relationships: Mitch McDeere/Joey Morolto Jr.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	let you in (this time)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> I just couldn't resist that prompt for one of them showing up on the other's doorstep, shot and needing help! Plus or minus some grudging caretaking and unexpected feelings. So please enjoy this bonus hurt!Joey tidbit. ♥
> 
> Titled adapted from "Bulletproof" by La Roux, because I couldn't resist the irony.

It's been a long quiet day alone in the house, for Mitch. Relaxing, at least as long as he doesn't let himself think about why: about Abby and Claire, in Kentucky. About the part where he's starting to understand that maybe they aren't coming back.

Ray and Tammy are busy in the office, and Ray had said something about them going out to dinner later. There isn't—there isn't anybody else. Not for Mitch, not really.

So Mitch isn't expecting the knock on the door.

And he _definitely_ isn't expecting to open it and find Joey Morolto on his front step.

"Hi, Mitch," Joey says. "Don't suppose you'd mind letting me in?"

And then Mitch has about three seconds to notice the wan, sickly cast to Joey's face, the way his legs are shaking, and oh, yeah, the _giant oozing bloodstain_ creeping out from under his open suit jacket, before Joey takes an unsteady half-step forward and stumbles.

Mitch reacts reflexively—catches him by the shoulder that isn't bleeding everywhere, the opposite elbow. Joey makes a sharp noise between his teeth and tries to jerk away, but his legs just aren't under him; he sags in Mitch's grip, and Mitch has to practically drag him in over the threshold.

In a spasm of stupidly mundane panic, Mitch leaves him there long enough to swing the door shut. As if that'll help, when half the neighbors probably saw Joey Morolto dripping blood and staggering the whole way up the street—

"Well," Joey murmurs, from the floor. "That was a much warmer welcome than I was expecting."

"Shut up," Mitch snaps, barely listening, and reaches across him to jerk one side of his suit jacket open, baring the dark red stain soaking the dress shirt underneath. "Jesus. What the hell happened?"

"You need me to spell it out?" Joey says in a tone that could almost pass for genuinely curious. "I guess that's fair, seeing as it's an incredibly complex story: somebody shot me, Mitch."

"No kidding," Mitch says flatly. "I wonder why." He braces himself and reaches for Joey's shoulder, slides a hand under; he's expecting a whole separate mess, but instead Joey's shirt feels—well, damp, starting to get a little stiff with the cold sweat Joey's drenched it with by wandering around DC with a bullet hole in him. But not hot with blood, not dripping all over Mitch's floor.

No exit wound.

Mitch swallows. That's either moderately good, or unbelievably bad. If Joey's got a bullet lodged in a bone, if his collarbone or shoulder socket have been broken, there's no way in hell Mitch is going to be able to do half of what he needs to get out of this without some kind of long-term injury.

"Joey, you should be in a _hospital_ —"

"Sure, yeah," Joey drawls. "Because nobody's going to be watching those, specifically waiting for me to show up so they can finish the job. Great thinking, Mitch. I knew I kept you around for something."

Mitch spares a moment to roll his eyes, deliberately, pointedly, because there's no depth of pettiness Joey Morolto can't drive him to within about two minutes. But the rest of his concentration is on Joey's shoulder, on feeling along the lines of it, manipulating it in his hands the barest degree.

Joey sucks in a harsh breath, teeth clenched, and bites his lip before he blows it out again, only to start muttering swears in Italian. But Mitch is pretty sure that's more about the bullet wound in general than anything specific Mitch is doing; it's hard to be certain, but nothing _feels_ broken, nothing's loose or grating beneath Mitch's fingertips. The bullet might still have struck bone, might still be a hell of a mess to get out. But at least the absolute worst-case scenario can probably be crossed off the list.

Small blessings. Joey Morolto's still stumbled through Mitch's front door bleeding way, way too much, and this is still the kind of problem Mitch really wasn't prepared to deal with today.

Well. Even if the next thing Mitch does is call an ambulance—or the cops—he'll still have to wait for them to get here, and he's not interested in trying to figure out how to make Joey comfortable or put pressure on the wound in the entryway. Kitchen gives Mitch everything: easy access to clean water, dishtowels, even scissors to cut Joey's shirt free.

"Come on," Mitch says sharply, and grabs Joey's uninjured arm, yanks it up and over his own shoulders.

Joey's blinking up at him, eyes huge and dark in his paling face, and jesus, he'd better not be about to pass out. "What," he slurs, "you got a grave dug out back?"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Maybe he _is_ about to pass out. Mitch sighs through his nose, grips Joey's wrist where it's draping over his shoulder and starts working an arm around Joey's back. "I want to get you in the kitchen. If you can help me keep you from falling on your face on the way, that would be appreciated."

"You're really going to do it," Joey says, almost hushed, somewhere between baffled and fascinated. "You're really going to help me."

"What did you think I was going to do? Leave you bleeding out on my front walk?"

Joey just keeps looking up at him, silent, swallowing.

And—well, okay, Mitch probably hadn't been his first choice. Mitch probably hadn't been his _fifth_ choice. But depending on who shot him, where it happened—maybe he couldn't have made it to any of his usual boltholes. Maybe he wouldn't have been safe there. Maybe he was stuck with his last resort, the only person he knows who isn't one of his own guys, isn't part of that world by choice. Probably the last place anybody would think to look for him, too, when everyone knows what Mitch McDeere did to Joey Morolto, Sr.

So he'd come here, because he was desperate. He'd come here, even though apparently he'd thought Mitch might take one look at him like this and shut the door in his face anyway.

The thought puts a strange knotted-up feeling in Mitch's chest. Mitch swallows, and bites down on the inside of his cheek, and makes sure not to let it show on his face where Joey might see it.

"I'll grant you that that probably would have been the smart move," he says aloud.

"Still is," Joey says, low and very level, watching him without blinking.

Jesus. "Yeah," Mitch says. "Because I'm known for making the smart move, and keeping myself out of trouble."

He hauls Joey up the rest of the way before Joey can say anything in response to that, and Joey curses some more, twisting his fingers into Mitch's shirt. Mitch can feel him shaking weakly, everywhere his weight is pressing into Mitch.

But he's able to get his feet under him, and together they stumble their way to the kitchen without Joey ending up on the floor again. Mitch maneuvers him into a chair and leaves him there for a minute, crossing the kitchen to grab a pile of dishtowels from one drawer, and to fill a bowl with water.

"Not the shirt," Joey mumbles, when Mitch comes back toward him with the scissors in hand.

"It's already ruined, Joey," Mitch tells him. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's no way you were going to get the blood out of this."

"You haven't seen what my dry-cleaner can do," Joey insists blearily, and it's such a ridiculous conversation to be having over Joey's bleeding shoulder, in Mitch's kitchen, that Mitch has to bite down on a sudden inappropriate laugh.

"Not this time," he manages to say instead, and reaches out, hooks Joey's collar and cuts quickly down the seam, before Joey can pull away.

The suit jacket has to go, too, because Mitch isn't going to be able to work that down Joey's arm either, not without yanking Joey's shoulder around a lot more than either of them wants. Mitch slices it away unapologetically, tugs what's left free of Joey's arm, and then starts peeling the shirt off where it's stuck down with all Joey's blood. Jesus.

"I've got to get the bullet out," he tells Joey, who grimaces. "Except I probably can't, if it's in a bone—"

"It's not," Joey assures him, with a sickly little smile. "Trust me. I can feel it."

Great. Fantastic.

"How far away was the shooter?" Mitch says. Habit: he's used to listening to statements, prepping witnesses, running through everything that happened to them until they've got it set out clearly in their heads. And he can't help but want to put it together. Can't have been point-blank, not if the bullet didn't go through but also didn't hit anything that would have stopped it—

"Not that far," Joey says.

Mitch raises an eyebrow.

And to his surprise, Joey swallows, and lets his eyes fall shut. "I—pulled Robbie in front of me, when the gun went off. Hit him first." Joey pauses. "He's probably dead," he adds, in a soft even tone.

Mitch is suddenly, helplessly aware of the sodden weight of the bloodied suit jacket, cut sleeve hanging forgotten off the side of the chair Joey's sitting in. Apparently not all of that blood was Joey's after all.

Which is bad for Robbie, whoever he was, but a guilty relief to Mitch: with the cloth of the shirt gone, he can see the wound, and it's bleeding more sluggishly than he'd expected given the mess on Joey's clothes. Maybe Joey's not going to die in his kitchen after all.

Getting the bullet out isn't as bad as Mitch is expecting.

Which isn't saying much, and if he never has to do anything like it ever again, it'll be too soon. It involves hastily disinfected pliers, lots of blood, Joey screaming intermittently behind tightly clenched teeth, and a visceral sort of horror that keeps striking Mitch anew every time he accidentally starts thinking about what he's doing, making bile rise in the back of his throat. He can't decide whether it would be better or worse if Joey were passed out, slack under his hands, instead of shivering and groaning, staring up at Mitch with glassy eyes.

But he doesn't get to find out. Joey clings grimly to awareness the whole way through. Mitch poured him some scotch at his request before they got started, and he seems to be trying to keep his head in the game by focusing on the glass in his hand—keeping his shaking fingers the bare minimum of relaxed enough, steady enough, to hold it without breaking it.

The bullet comes out, whole. There's a fragment of cloth stuck to it, presumably from Joey's shirt—or maybe the unlucky Robbie's, Mitch can't help thinking. Mitch braces himself and rinses as much blood away as he can, but doesn't see any more crap trapped in Joey's shoulder; he's going to have to settle for keeping an eye on Joey's temperature, checking for signs of infection.

And if he finds any, Joey's going to the hospital whether he wants to or not, even if Mitch has to hit him over the head and carry him there.

He cleans up as best he can, mentally writes off most of the dishtowels as unsalvageable, and then leaves Joey there for a minute to go get the first aid kit from under the sink. Joey's shoulder is bleeding more now than it was earlier, thanks to Mitch effectively poking it with a stick for ten or fifteen minutes; Mitch covers it up with half a dozen layers of gauze, keeps going until he stops feeling them soaking through under his hands, and then adds a few more for good measure before he binds the whole thing down with a bandage.

That part, ridiculously enough, is almost the hardest of all. For Mitch to get the bandage wound securely around Joey's shoulder, Joey's arm has to be held out, suspended. Joey tries to do it, automatic, and then goes white and almost slides off the chair; Mitch has to pin him there, hold him up, get his arm out of the way, and wrap the bandage—without making it too tight, or too loose—all at the same time.

Needless to say, it's not graceful. But when he's done, he's pretty sure it'll hold up for a little while.

And then Joey blinks, once, twice, and rasps out, "So. What do you want?"

"What?" Mitch says, not really paying attention, trying to wipe up a little more blood where it dripped on the kitchen table.

"Must be something," Joey says. "You're going to a lot of trouble here, Mitch. I'm not stupid."

Mitch jerks his head up, and stares at him.

"I'm ruining your life," Joey adds, almost gently, like there's any way in hell Mitch might somehow not have noticed. "I die, all your problems get solved. Must be something big you think you're going to get out of this, if it's enough to tip the scales the other direction. Might as well tell me what."

Jesus.

"I know this is going to come as a shock to you," Mitch bites out, "but not everybody makes decisions based on what they think they're going to get out of it."

Joey's gaze turns cool, flinty; the slant of his mouth is bitter. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. Well, either way, I hate to be in anybody's debt. But I'm afraid I don't have my wallet on me, and I realize the classic 'clothes off my back' is a less than tempting offer at the moment." He pauses, and tilts his head. "I guess technically I got one other thing available right now that you might be able to get some use out of, but I imagine you'd consider that taking advantage."

Mitch can't even figure out what the hell Joey's talking about, for a long moment. He just stands there, blinking down at Joey, one hand still spread out across Joey's half-clothed good shoulder to keep him in the chair.

And then, abruptly, he's vividly aware of exactly where he is and how he's standing—leaning in over Joey, so close their thighs are still touching just above the knee, where Mitch had moved unthinkingly a minute ago to brace Joey in the chair. Half of Joey's shirt is gone, one shoulder and arm and what is now all too clearly way too much of his chest bare to the skin; on the other side the line of buttons is hanging free under the open front of what's left of Joey's suit jacket. If you subtract the bullet wound, the pile of bloodstained towels, the bandage, then it looks like—they look like—

He doesn't let himself move. If he moves, Joey made him uncomfortable: Joey wins.

He clears his throat, and ignores the heat he can feel creeping up his throat and into his face, and says, "I'm guessing that qualifies as a little more exertion than is strictly advisable with a fresh gunshot wound."

Joey laughs, a sharp bark of it like it took him by surprise. It brings some color back into his face; and his eyes look sharper, clearer, when he gives Mitch an intent, considering look and says, "And here I thought you'd object on the grounds that you'd sooner die than take me up on it."

Mitch can feel the flush of heat all the way up to his ears, now.

Because Joey's right. He should have—he should have told Joey there was no way in hell. He should have said something about how he wouldn't touch Joey in a million years; about Abby, even though Joey's probably well aware of where she is and why, and must have guessed it's looking like it'll stick.

"That too," he snaps, way too late, and looks away. "Just—stay put and don't do anything stupid."

And before Joey can reply, he turns away, snatches up the dishtowels, and leaves.

It's just so he can bag them up, he tells himself. Just to find somewhere to keep them until he can get rid of them.

And if he has to stop halfway down the hall and put his back to the wall, tip his head back and close his eyes and listen to his heart pound until he can get a goddamn grip, that's nobody's business but his.

By the time he gets back, Joey's drooping a little. His color still looks better than it did, but he must be crashing, now that the worst of it is over, now that the adrenaline's worn off.

Now that he's somewhere safe.

Or safer than wherever the hell he was, anyway, Mitch tells himself, and clears his throat.

"Come on," he says, brisk. "You're not sleeping in a kitchen chair."

Joey cracks an eye and grins at him, broad and lazy. "Yeah, of course," he murmurs hoarsely. "God forbid I throw my back out."

But he lets Mitch take him by the wrist again, pull his good arm back up and over Mitch's shoulders. And Mitch can't help but compare: he isn't as tense this time, isn't shaking and strung out on pain and blood loss. He poured himself some more scotch while Mitch was out of the room, he must have, because the glass isn't quite empty anymore; maybe that's why he's so loose, so relaxed, leaning heavily into Mitch's side.

Mitch is careful with him, maneuvering them a step at a time toward the guestroom.

Of course he is. He'd be careful with anybody who'd just gotten shot in the shoulder. It's not like it means anything.

He puts a fresh towel out before he actually lets Joey lie down on the bed, and he keeps a hand behind Joey's shoulder, another on the wrist of his bad arm, helping Joey keep from jostling them on the way.

He's an upstanding, considerate guy. It's not about Joey.

And of course Joey dragged the half of his jacket, his shirt, that Mitch hadn't cut off along with him. He can't use his bad arm to pull them off. Mitch stands there and watches him try to inch both sleeves down using only the arm that's inside of them, for about thirty seconds, and then blows out a breath and says, "Cut that out. Let me."

Joey looks at him. "Can't stop you," he says.

And he doesn't look away, not for an instant. His eyes feel hot, heavy, on Mitch's face; and Mitch carefully doesn't meet them, leans in over Joey and slides two fingers up the back of Joey's wrist to catch his sleeve, other hand up at the shoulder to ease it off. The sad half-jacket first, and then what's left of the shirt, and when he's done with them both that just means he's bending over Joey Morolto, shirtless, in a bed that belongs to him.

Jesus, Mitch thinks, and eases the jacket, the shirt, out from under Joey's side. Joey's warm, solid, under his hands. And there's something Mitch shouldn't like as much as he does about—about Joey's weight shifting under him, moving with him.

"McDeere," Joey says, very low.

Mitch looks at him.

He has a split second to think to himself that there's something in Joey's expression just then that he wasn't expecting. Something that isn't smug, or sultry, or self-satisfied. Something harsh, instead; hungry. Something—bitter, and sharp-edged, and yearning.

And then Joey gets his good hand up and wraps it around the nape of Mitch's neck, and drags him up over Joey's body, and kisses him.

At first Mitch can't do anything but let it happen, stunned still. He'd known Joey would probably push it, one way or another, now that he'd figured out Mitch could be needled by it. But he hadn't thought Joey would—would actually—

Joey's kissing him hard, thoroughly. Like it's a challenge, a provocation. And Mitch has never quite figured out how to talk himself down from rising to those, especially when they come from Joey.

He fumbles a hand up, finds the angle of Joey's jaw and brushes a tentative thumb along it. Joey breaks away, just barely, and sucks in a breath against Mitch's mouth, and that's as good an invitation to take the initiative as Mitch could have asked for; Mitch finds the curve of Joey's lower lip, slides his tongue along it, and Joey jerks under him and makes a soft strange noise.

"Sorry," Mitch says immediately, breathless. He'd been holding himself up over Joey on his knees, his free hand—his free hand, which he'd braced on the mattress right next to Joey's bad shoulder. He must have moved it, shifted somehow, bumped Joey somewhere that hurt.

Except Joey's just blinking up at him, eyes wide, mouth red. He takes a second to wet his lips, and when he does say something, it isn't to tell Mitch to move his damn hand. "Not bad," he offers instead, after a moment; but his gaze is intent, searching, a little wary. Like somehow _he's_ the one who's off the edge of the map here, who doesn't know what to expect next.

Because, Mitch thinks slowly, it threw him off.

It threw him off to be let in. It threw him off to be helped, to be taken care of, however grudgingly Mitch had done it. And it threw him off, to be—to be allowed to do something as unbelievably stupid as kiss Mitch. It threw him off, to be kissed back.

"I'm starting to get the feeling your expectations for me are pretty goddamn low," Mitch says aloud.

Joey swallows. Mitch doesn't manage to not watch his throat move.

"I don't think I can be held responsible," Joey says, deliberately light, "if my expectations for just about everybody are somewhere in the sub-basement today."

Which Mitch supposes is fair enough. Presumably it wasn't somebody Joey had known _not_ to trust who'd gotten within ten feet of him with a loaded gun.

"I'm not pressing charges," Mitch says. "I'm defense, not prosecution."

He told Joey the truth, before. He's never been any good at keeping himself out of trouble.

So he doesn't take the opening, doesn't get up. He doesn't make his excuses and leave, and close the door behind him, and promise himself he's never going to touch Joey Morolto again.

He gives Joey some warning—more than Joey gave him the first time around. He hasn't moved his hand, his thumb, off Joey's jaw, and he rubs there a little, letting himself feel the prickle of stubble, heat sparking under his skin. Slides his thumb up to the corner of Joey's mouth next, as clear a signpost as there could be; but Joey's still staring up at him warily even as Mitch leans down and kisses him again.

Counterintuitively, he feels like he's more conscious of Joey's shoulder, how shitty Joey must be feeling, than Joey was. He's careful: he keeps it soft, slow, and Joey lets him.

And then Mitch eases away, and clears his throat, and makes himself say, "You should get some rest."

"Trusting me to follow instructions?" Joey murmurs, eyebrows raised. "I don't know, I think maybe you'd better stick around and keep an eye on me."

Mitch huffs half a laugh through his nose. "I've still got a few things to clean up in the kitchen," he says, because it's true: there's still a bowl of bloody water on the table, plus the more blood-soaked half of Joey's clothes. And the scotch glass, for that matter.

Joey makes a eloquently pitying face— _your loss_ —and then has to stifle a yawn, turning his face against the pillow and letting his eyes fall shut.

"But I'll—be back," Mitch hears himself say, and then turns around and leaves the room immediately.

Jesus. It doesn't matter. This isn't going to matter. It's not a big deal.

But the way his heart is pounding, the way his mouth still feels hot and wet, the way his fingertips itch with the sense memory of Joey's jaw beneath them, are starting to make him think that maybe that's not the ironclad closing argument it was supposed to be.


End file.
